When you've got chemistry
by archangelic.gracelessness
Summary: John and sherlock have over time become the best of friends. But their less than appreciated antics at school and 'it's us against the world' attitude leads them down a dangerous path. Can they steer each other in the right direction. Or are they destined to be bad influences together. [teenlock. Warnings inside. Some Mystrade later] {CURRENTLY ON HIATUS MAY NOT BE CONTINUED}
1. boys will be boys

**_When you've got chemistry_**

_teenlock. Ships - mainly johnlock and a little Mystrade. Rated M for later chapters because I'm thinking there shall be smut. John is aged about 17 and Sherlock is about 16 so both in college. _

_Warnings - smut, guy on guys relationships, enough fluff to sink a ship (no pun intended) and later there will be some homophobia._

* * *

With a deafening fizzing sound and a burst of bright red light, the classroom is filled with a less-than-safe gas and the noisy clamouring of coughing children. One lone voice among the ruckus however, howls with laughter. And another is hardly holding back fits of giggles. As the noxious cloud dissipates the figures in the room are slowly revealed; to show a gaggle of dust coated, uniform clad, teens stood around a table, a balding professor who is as red as a beet with rage, and in the centre of the minor calamity stands two snickering young boys. And as the class notices the state of them, they quickly go from coughing to cackling at the troublesome pair.

One, Sherlock Holmes, stands with his hands still frozen in the action of pouring liquid from a flask into the beaker held suspended in his other. His dark unruly curls are singed and his face is comically coated in soot, with two bright blue eyes standing out starkly against the black. Beside him stands a shorter, dark blonde boy named John Watson, who can barely contain his laughter. His face is also dusted in the dark powder.

Sherlock blinks, seemingly taken by surprise at the sudden explosion he had apparently just caused, his lips trembling ever so slightly as he tries not to join his friend in fits of laughter. "Master Holmes that is the third time this week!" The teacher booms, abruptly silencing the excitedly babbling children and storming toward the two boys with a murderous look on his bloated features.

"I may have miscalculated the volume of bicarbonate of soda..." The taller boy says flatly, placing the blackened beakers on the also, considerably blackened desk and staring un-phased at the furious man. "To be fair the instructions weren't very clear, sir" John chimes in, trying to keep a straight face.

The teacher promptly turns an alarming shade of purple, and slamming his hands with great force on the lab table he bellows "well, do you know what _is_ going to be clear master Watson? My. classroom. by the end of the day! Because you are both staying behind after school to clean it!"

The class is deathly silent, and you could hear a pin drop right up till the bell for next period rings out.

At exactly three o'clock; the last bell, John Watson strolls through the door to professor Bruteous's lab, his backpack slung over one shoulder and the remnants of soot still smudged slightly on his chin. He glances around cautiously for Bruteous, not wanting to get on the frightful professor's bad side any further. When he sees that the coast is clear he flops against the door frame in relief, folding his arms and wondering where his usually entirely too punctual friend has gotten to.

Sherlock stumbles from the lab supply closet, holding piled up boxes of cleaning utensils and spray in his arms that are stacked so high they block his vision. "Hey, Sherlock!" John calls to the lanky, taller boy, who jumps startled and nearly drops the leaning tower of cardboard boxes with an awkward wiggle. "Oop, sorry." John says with a chuckle, stepping into the still kind of smokey classroom and sliding the backpack off his shoulder onto the floor with a thunk.

There is a relived sigh as the boxes are set down on a nearby desk, Sherlock's face is flushed with exertion and like John's, still a little sooty as he looks up to smile weakly at his friend. "That's the last of it" the dark-haired boy declares, putting his hands on his hips and scanning the room with uninterested eyes. "Looks like we're going to be here a while..." He adds as looks up and notes the scorch marks that decorate the ceiling.

John groans and thrusts his hands into his trouser pockets frustrated, following Sherlock's gaze to the burnt ceiling. "You have got to be kidding me, how the hell are we going to get this done and have time to do any homework?" He sighs exasperatedly. Sherlock quirks and eyebrow in response, and John quickly adds, "okay, well how am_ I_ going to get my homework done. I know that your fine you're practically bloody Spock!"

"I could always help you with your homework, John" Sherlock suggests quietly, glancing at the floor. The blond-haired boy grins "honestly, you're brilliant mate, thanks!" He laughs. Sherlock smiles back, cursing himself for the faint blush that burns his cheeks. "Yeah, you can come back to my house for dinner tonight. I'm sure mum won't mind." John adds, grabbing his mobile from his pocket and excitedly typing out the text to his parents before Sherlock can even so much as reply.

The taller boy chuckles and looks thoughtfully back up at the ceiling, "that experiment sure was more fun to blow up than it will be to clean up." He muses, grabbing a mop from the water bucket and haphazardly swiping it across the ceiling scorch. John finishes the text, shoving the phone back in his pocket to see what his companion is doing. "We'll that's one way to do it I guess" he says with a smirk.

"There's some soap over there in the top box that reads 'Xtra bubble power' do you think you could pour some in the bucket, John? This stain is being disagreeable." The dark-haired boy asks, not looking away from his ceiling mopping, which was doing nothing more than making it soggy. "Sure" John calls over, sifting through the cardboard box to find some sponges which, he takes one of and the box of 'Xtra bubble power'.

The blonde haired boy glances at the back of the packet, there are no limits per say to how much you should use, and he figures since the job is such a big one they should use roughly half a box. With a shrug, he tips half of the fine pink powder into the bucket of murky water, grabbing a sponge and dunking it in.

"Here, let me help with that" John says, standing on a chair and slapping the waterlogged sponge on the ceiling mark with a splat. "Ah, the soap, good. This stubborn stain should begin to come off now" Sherlock sighs, already fed up with the amount of effort he had wasted on something as trivial as cleaning. With a few rubs of the sponge, the mark does indeed start to fade, as thick foam, coloured baby pink and smelling of flowers spew from the sponges pores.

"Well they weren't exaggerating about it being extra foamy were they?" The shorter boy jokes, rubbing at the stain vigorously. Foam begins to cover his hand and run down him arm, dripping onto the desks below with a plop. "Crap." Sherlock mutters, looking down, "maybe a little too-" he begins before he is abruptly cut off by a handful of foam hitting him in the face.

The taller boy lowers the mop, and with his free hand slowly wipes the foam from his face, flicking it onto the floor. "Foamy." He finishes flatly. Glaring up at John, who for a terrible second he believes he may have actually upset Sherlock. "John, that was completely unnecessary..." He grumbles, sneakily taking a handful of foam from the desk behind him. "And I hope you know that you have brought this on yourself!" He yells, throwing a large blob of the foam right into johns unexpecting face with a gleeful giggle.

From this an epic and extremely childish pink-foam fight begins, dramatically diving behind desks and throwing foam filled sponges as ammo until the pair find themselves stood in a room almost entirely covered in foam, breathless and laughing uncontrollably. "Well..." Sherlock says finally, glancing around him with a grin.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" He says, looking to John, who nods with a knowing smile. "Let's leave it for the cleaners. after all, the soot's all gone and so's the scorch mark on the ceiling." The shorter boy agrees. He quickly grabs his now damp backpack and runs from the room after sherlock, down the main corridor and out of the school as fast as their feet would take them, occasionally grabbing onto sherlock's blazer sleeve to keep up and both cackling all the while.

when they finally stop running, they are a block from john's house. The pair stand out of breath, leaning on each other for support and trying not to laugh, because they've laughed so much that physically it hurts to continue. "we... need to stop... doing that!" The blond boy giggles clutching his side where a stitch has developed. Sherlock scoffs, "I'll stop when you stop John Watson, I'll stop when you stop." He sighs with a smile.

Thunder claps overhead and rain begins to pour down by the bucket load, drenching the two boys stood at the corner of the block. The foam that soaked into their clothing now running down them and into the street. John and Sherlock try not to laugh too much as they notice, and realise how odd it must look to other people.

"At least our uniforms won't be all soap tomorrow, eh?" Sherlock chuckles. "Every cloud, now let's get to my house so we can dry off and you can help me with my algebra homework" John grins. And the two boys walk through the rain together leaving long trails of baby pink suds behind them.

* * *

_Well that's all for chapter one. Sorry it's über short but there's plenty more to come. I'm thinking I should drag it out a little longer than a couple of chapters to establish a proper feeling of friendship before the crescendo, make it seem a bit more real when they finally discover their true feelings for one another. Or maybe I might put a twist in there. Maybe add some Moriarty? Who knows. _

**_please review!_**


	2. all the things he said

_When you've got chemistry _

_chapter two - all the things he said_

_(because naming chapters after tatu songs is not clique shh)_

_this kept having to be rewritten because it got deleted and ugh I won't go into detail but let's just go ahead and say it was the most stressful experience of my young life. But anyway here's some angsty fluffy teenlock with like a hint if mystrade in this chapter. More to come! Please review!_

* * *

**Chapter two - all the things he said**

The front door of the Watson household slams shut behind the two shivering figures stood in the hall, the warmth and welcome of the house instantly enveloping their dripping bodies like a loving embrace.

They remove their shoes, placing them carefully in the designated rack, sure not to drip water on Mrs Watson's floor as they know there would be hell to pay. John's mother; a woman with a kind but somewhat forced smile, clad in fuzzy bunny slippers and curlers of all colours in her frizzy auburn hair, shuffles toward them from the living room.

she holds out two mugs of hot tea, a small amount of steam billowing from the contents of the china cups like dragon's breath. "Hello boys, you look absolutely terrible! The weather really has taken a turn hasn't it?" She greets chipperly, handing them each a mug which they gladly take. The heat straight away begins coaxing their numb fingers back to life.

John laughs, "thanks mum." he shakes his head slightly, sending little drops of water in all directions. His mother tuts, crossing her arms in mock annoyance but the smile still remains. "will dad be here for tea tonight?" he asks hopefully.

John never really gets to see much of his father, who's always either out at the barracks with mountains of paperwork or out on lengthy training exercises.

His mother furrows her eyebrows with a frown on her pursed lips, and lets out a soft sigh. "No dear. I'm afraid he just has a lot of work to do..." John stares intently at the floor, disappointment flickering across his usually happy features. "It's okay mum. I'll see him tomorrow I guess." He mumbles, looking back up at her with a well practiced and very much forced smile. Somewhat mirroring hers.

For a long minute uncomfortable silence hangs in the air.

"Thank you for letting me stay for dinner, Mrs Watson" Sherlock says quietly. Speaking up at last, breaking the tension and continuing to awkwardly sip at his tea. He doesn't do well at all in social situations of any kind, especially given the circumstances. John knows this better than anyone, and glances fondly at his friend. This time his smile is genuine.

"No problem at all dear" she replies as sweetly as possible, masking the concern she feels upon seeing the dark-haired boy with her son. After previous mishaps at school involving the two, she cannot help, as John's mother, harbouring a considerable amount of mistrust and uncertainty regarding his friend. But she quickly disregards this, scolding herself for thinking so badly of so young and naive an individual. With a nod and another relatively forced smile that looks mildly painful, she shuffles off back toward the living room, absent mindedly humming the bee gees 'stayin alive'.

When she is finally out of view Sherlock relaxes, slumping against the wall with a sigh of relief. The pair then hastily finish their tea, placing the empty mugs on the hallway radiator cover. John is the first to speak. "Look, I know that you're awkward around her after the last time, but that was just a misunderstanding. She knows now that it wasn't just your fault, it'll be okay between you two. I promise, everything will be fine." he says, placing a reassuring hand on the taller boys shoulder, who places his own hand over John's with a weak smile. "I know." He lies.

"alright then let's go upstairs, I really need to copy your algebra homework" the shorter boy chuckles, before letting go of his friend and bounding up the rough carpeted stairs two steps at a time. He is followed by a rather gangly Sherlock into the landing.

John's bedroom is two doors to the right, and with a swift kick from the owner of said bedroom, that door swings open with a sharp creak to reveal the interior.

The first time he saw it, Sherlock found John's bedroom to be perfectly unspectacular, much in fact, like the boy's appearance at first glance. But with John's face, once he had looked closely, he had began to see small and subtle things that give him character. Like the way that the shorter boy's eyes crinkle in the corners when he smiles, really properly smiles, and to Sherlock each little crease is wonderful and is so, so, very John.

The room itself has a similar kind of charm, with its bland white and blue colour scheme and its almost militarily minimalistic design, it appears to be nothing special. But there are little things about it; like the faint scratch and scuff marks on the window sill left from toy soldiers years before, or the way that he makes his bed so neat and meticulously, that feel personal.

The two boys enter the room, the shorter of the pair closing the door behind them with a click. Letting out a heavy sigh, John shrugs off his still rather damp backpack from his shoulder, and discards it in the far corner of the room with a thud. He then makes his way over to an ,evidently second hand, pine wood single bed, peeling off the soggy blazer and throwing to land haphazardly on top of his bag.

Sherlock follows suit, ridding himself of both bag and blazer once he had removed his algebra sheet. John grabs his old sticker-smothered laptop from under the bed, flopping down with the groaning complaint of outdated mattress springs, onto his front on the covers. The taller boy sits cross legged on the carpeted floor before his friend, so that they are face to face, besides from the laptop screen.

John begins typing excitedly, punching at the keys with his index fingers for lack of better typing skills, sticking his tongue out in mock concentration. Sherlock quirks and eyebrow and grins widely, extending an arm and placing his algebra sheet to balance on the other boys head. John continues to type, taking no notice of his new headgear, much to Sherlock's amusement.

When the web page loads, he cries out in success (as with the old hunk of junk he has he is very lucky if it works half of the time), sitting up suddenly and sending the maths sheet fluttering to the floor. The shorter boy looks pointedly at it in momentary confusion, before rolling his eyes with a smirk and meeting his friends laughing face.

"do you remember this?" He asks, trying not to crack up. Before Sherlock could question it, the blonde-haired boy clicks a button on the laptop and the beginning chords to 'do you think I'm sexy' begin blaring from the crappy speakers, giving the sound a crackly quality, but the song is recognisable nonetheless.

Within seconds the boy on the floor in doubled over, joining John in fits of laughter. "Yes!" Sherlock cries out, "the school disco last year! Stan Anderson was dancing about to this like a bloody buffoon, trying to impress Sally Donovan!" He cackles, voice hoarse from exertion. "and, and he slipped on that little puddle of drink and faceplanted the floor in front of everyone!" John adds breathlessly, wiping a tear from his eye.

The boys laugh until they are sore, both lean forward unwittingly, clutching at their stomachs. It is only when their noses softly brush against each other that they realise their proximity, with wide eyes and bated breath they share a look that seems to last forever. The clocks stop and time freezes over, all there is left is Sherlock's heart hammering terrified against his chest and John's questioning and equally as shocked stare.

Sherlock pulls back suddenly, a light blush burning at his cheeks, that he desperately hopes his friend won't notice. John blinks utterly dumbfounded, deciding very quickly to brush it off and hope for the best. "So we better get some work done now." The taller boy says very seriously. "Yes, I suppose we should." John replies mimicking his seriousness, in an over the top monotone voice.

they stare at each other in silence for a long moment, both pulling stupid 'serious faces' waiting for the other to crack first.

The corners of both boys mouths turn up almost in unison, and they are once again in fits of laughter. But this time they are cut off by a curt and angry exclamation from downstairs. "Jonathan Hamish Watson get down here now!" comes the cry from none other than Mrs Watson.

The pair exchange a horrified look, before jumping up to run to the landing, clutching the dark wood of the banister with nervous fingers. "What is it mum...?" John calls down cautiously, a note of fear in his voice.

This had happened once before, and had ended extremely badly on Sherlock's part. "I said get. down. Here. Now." Warns the voice from down the stairs once again. The shorter boy reaches out and clutches at the sleeve of Sherlock's shirt, staring into his friends concerned eyes and nodding. With minds racing with the memory of the last time, the pair make their way down the stairs, stopping in the doorway of the living room. They dare not enter.

Mrs Watson stands with phone in hand, the other placed on her hip and her face twisted with rage. "yes, they will most certainly not be. Make sure that do that please mr bruteous. Thank you, okay goodbye." she says apologetically into the phone, before pressing the button to end the call and turning to face the two cowering figures in the doorway.

John opens his mouth to speak, but is shot down in flames before he can even utter a syllable. "John I am very disappointed in you!" she hisses, her lips curling into sneer. Sherlock finds the smaller boys hand, gripping it tightly, a silent comfort. He knows what is to come. "Mum what did we do?" John shouts in confusion, feeling slightly light headed at the contact, but this is not time for that.

his mother laughs dryly, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes at Sherlock pointedly. "You know what you did, boys. You know perfectly well that this was your last chance and you blew it!" She scolds, talking now, directly to the taller boy. He is about to retaliate, but John beats him to it, standing infront of him protectively "whatever WE did WE did it together! You can't just blame Sherlock for everything I do wrong because you dont want to accept I'm not your 'little boy' anymore!" he shouts, balling his free hand into a fist.

Mrs Watson frowns, sighing patronisingly. "You would never have done this kind of thing before you befriended that boy Jonathan..." She trails off knowing she had struck a nerve, the shorter boy flinches at the use of his full name. "I'm sure you're a wonderful person deep down Sherlock, but you have to admit you are a bad influence on my son." She continues equally as butter-wouldn't-melt, fixing her gaze on Sherlock who squeezes John's hand tighter, both bracing himself and in anger.

With sudden realisation John mutters "oh..." His mother nods "yes! you completely trashed that classroom and left it covered in soap, the damage is going to require repainting and treatment for mold thanks to your little mischief!" She snaps, growing angry again.

"you're in so much trouble young man, and you can say goodbye to Sherlock. Because you are most certainly not allowed near him ever again if I can help it. The school has been informed and you are to be separated in classes also, oh and Harriot will tell me if you so much as glance at each other in the playground. Do you hear me?" Mrs Watson assures, her voice dangerous and her eyes unrelenting.

Her words hit the boys like a ton of bricks, but the most effected is John, who unlike Sherlock, was completely unprepared. He feels hot tears prick behind his eyes and his blood boil within him, "No! No, it won't let you do this! You can't!" He yells in disbelief. Mrs Watson's anger subsides somewhat upon seeing her son so cut up, but does not waver. "I'm sorry, but it's for the best Jonathan." She soothes.

John feels Sherlock's hand slip from his, and he helpless watches as he slowly climbs the stairs, he feels the loss straight away, and it makes something within him snap.

"No! It isn't at all, I hate you! I hate you! and stop calling me Jonathan! I'm not your bloody kid anymore and I wish I never was!" He bellows, grabbing the door frame with white knuckle grip. his mothers face is one of hurt and of utter shock, she sputters unable to fathom words fast enough. But it is too late, he is gone. running up the stairs after Sherlock. She is left alone.

John enters his room, his breath ragged from shouting, to see Sherlock stood holding his rucksack to his chest, biting his lip and stifling sobs. The sight of a teenage boy fighting back tears like a child is enough to make half the school laugh, but not John, not this teenage boy. It is like a shard through his heart, and for whatever reason, he takes him in his arms without a moments thought, burying his head into the crook of his neck.

With a thud Sherlock lets the rucksack drop to the floor in shock, before wrapping his lithe arms tightly around the smaller boys frame, surprised at how much he needs the contact, the bittersweet comfort that will probably be the last time the two are allowed to be it this close. There is a long moment of just standing there in each others embrace, neither one of them willing to admit that it's not exactly what most best friends do, but then again they aren't most people.

finally Sherlock pulls away and for a second, John leans in to ghost the tip of his nose gently against Sherlock's. With in leap of faith, the taller boy brushes his nose softly against John's in reply, and in silent conformation it becomes theirs, something between them like a secret or a promise, or perhaps it is both, but either way it gives them a little hope.

"John! its time for Sherlock to leave. Now!" Mrs Watson calls irritatedly from downstairs, her voice faintly wobbly from crying. The taller boy nods and walks slowly down the steps for the last time, followed by John. Placing still damp shoes on his feet and with a brief and wordless goodbye, he closes the door behind him with a final click.

A frustrated scream tears from johns throat, as he frantically clutches at his head with both hands, threading his fingers through his short hair. His mother runs out into the hall, crumpled tissue in hand. "Jonathan!" She whispers, only just realising how upset he had become.

"Don't. Call. Me. Jonathan!" He bellows, running up the stairs two steps at a time and slamming his door shut behind him, the sound is followed by a heavy quiet and soft sobbing from the living room. With a sigh John holds his head in his hands and wonders what Sherlock is doing right now.

with a shaking hand, Sherlock turns his key in the lock, once again wet through from the return journey. But that doesn't bother him at all. Stepping into the grandly decorated and relatively sized hallway he kicks off his shoes and strides up the oak staircase to his bedroom.

He pauses outside his door, which is adjacent to his big brother's, at hearing a noise, and cringes as he identifies it as Lestrade, or rather Lestrade with a mouthful of Mycroft's tongue no doubt. He shudders, entering his room and quietly shutting the door behind him, lest he disturb mummy or daddy, or worse, Mycroft. The room is dark. And strewn with crime books and science equipment.

He slides down the door, the weight of all that had happened pulling him down to the ground with a thud, with a sigh and his head in his hands, he wonders what John is doing right now. The memory of the embrace tortuous and unrelenting in his usually so logical mind.

* * *

_Please excuse any odd spelling mistakes, autocorrect is a bitch is it not? this chapter is slightly longer than the other one as promised, but my god did it take a long time to write. Anyway, I've got quite the evil plan for the plot so stay tuned if you're interested! Oh, and Moriarty is a definite character to be involved quite significantly with the plot very soon. It has been decided._

_please review my lovelies! _


	3. requited feelings and the new boy

**_chapter three - Requited feelings and the new boy_**

_here it is, the new chapter! I very much hope you like it, and you may need a shovel to wade through all that fluff. But don't worry gore and tragedy fans there is much of that to come. I am merely biding my time. muhahaha. anyway I digress, this chapter centres mostly around Sherlock. warnings are: swearing, homophobic douchebags and guy on guy._

* * *

Daylight filtered pleasantly through a gap in the curtains, an opalescent spotlight illuminating the graceful dance of dust ballerinas pirouetting through the air of Sherlock's bedroom. This peace was brought to a somewhat abrupt end however, as the loud beeping of an alarm rang through the air. With a drowsy groan the boy slammed at his bedside table with the flat of his palm until he had hit the intended target and shut off the infernal beeping, that had just regrettably interrupted a wonderful dream involving john.

He dragged the all-too-comfortable-in-the-morning sheets from his face, flinching at both the sudden assault of light on his half open eyes, and the sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach at the realisation of yesterday's events. "Fuck." He grumbled to no one in particular, forcing himself to sit up, rubbing at his bleary eyes.

After a good fifteen minutes of sluggishly getting ready for school, his tall frame came thudding down the stairs, one, foot, after, the, other. "Sherlock dear don't stomp around like that on the stairs you're going to damage the floorboards!" called the airy voice of his mother, a kind enough woman at a glance; with her lithe figure hugged by a charcoal coloured two piece pencil skirt and jacket number, her cherry red lipstick smile, and her chocolate brown hair curled expertly into a professional style bun.

But if you were ever to cross the notorious Mrs. Holmes in the courthouse; beware, she transforms into a cold calculating and dedicated lawyer that is an angel on your side, and demon as opposition. Truly a perfect match for her husband Mr. Holmes, the political expert and highly respected individual about the houses of parliament. Sadly the two are almost always at work; something Sherlock's parents have in common with John's.

Sherlock made his way to the large and rather modern looking kitchen, following the reassuring scent of toast and coffee. Despite his odd eating habits, or perhaps lack of them as he doesn't eat all that often, this morning he decided he dearly needed the energy. 'This is going to be a long day'. He thinks to himself accompanied by a horrid lurching feeling in his stomach, this is the first day in a long time he won't be with john, and he will be alone. Before he can think about the tender embrace in John's bedroom, he is handed his usual mug of black coffee, two sugars.

"Thank you mummy" he says politely not even bothering to fake a smile. Placing the mug on the oak table in the middle of the room, he pulls out a chair; furthest from where Mycroft is sat of course. Sherlock lets his rucksack drop from his shoulder and onto the floor beside his chosen seat with a small thud, before heading for the toaster.

The kitchen remains silent for some minutes, save for the quiet sipping sounds from his brother. Mrs Holmes had left the room after handing the youngest his coffee and was already halfway down the road, leaving the two boys alone in the house and Mycroft in charge, which he always milks for all its worth. Suddenly the toast pops up, making Sherlock jump a little, and presumably making Mycroft spill his coffee on the newspaper he was reading, as he hears a quiet string of curses from behind him. For the first time this morning he smiles.

His toast now buttered and his coffee half drained, the younger boy flops down into his seat, glancing at Mycroft with a seemingly uninterested look. 'Time for a warm up' he thinks to himself. "What are you looking at?" Mycroft asks exasperatedly, when Sherlock gives no reply the older boy sighs with a knowing look.

"Oh, don't even bother doing your weird little trick on me I am not in the mood this morning I have to find a political focal point to write my essay on by first period." he drawls in his usual bored tone, flipping the now damp page of his newspaper.

With a smirk Sherlock begins, forgetting momentarily all of his problems and woes, as he always does when he deduces. _His brother's legs are crossed, and the one leg he can see has faintly scuffed knees. For a boy who doesn't concern himself with physical activity, obviously, he does appear to have scuffed the material through something like that. _

With subtle closer inspection and another bite of toast, Sherlock notices a small red fibre standing out against the black of his school trousers._ That is the very same red of his carpeted floor, thinking back to the 'questionable' sounds he heard the previous day coming from Mycroft's boyfriend Greg Lestrade, a less than pleasant conclusion can be made._

Sherlock quirks and eyebrow, setting his coffee down on the table and says casually "but you were most certainly in the mood yesterday I see." Mycroft splutters on his coffee slightly his cheeks beginning to turn a magnificent shade of red. "What on earth do you mean?" he asked failing at hiding the horror in his demeanour.

Sherlock glanced at his watch with a satisfied smile and stood from the table, grabbing his rucksack and hoisting it onto his shoulder before making his way to the kitchen door. "Sherlock!" Mycroft hisses. Without turning the younger boy adds "I'm sure Greg knows what I'm talking about, isn't that right Mycroft?" and with that he left.

* * *

The walk to school should have been pleasant, the air was fresh and the breeze was warm. But the good mood and confident smiles from the kitchen had slowly faded with every step. Thoughts of what was to come swam around his over active imagination, people would talk, laugh at him, he wouldn't have john there to hold his hand through it all. With a huff of breath he scolded himself; he doesn't need john to feel safe, he can be on his own. He was lying to himself quite obviously but he had to, as the school gates came into view and his heart sank.

He misses john already, his smile, his humour that he had only just grown to understand, and his protectiveness towards him. Sure enough together they are a pair of tearaways, like with the soap incident. He smiles fondly at the memory. But alone they are misfits, of course john has friends, but none that he feels close to, 'I was the first' he thinks to himself. And it is bittersweet. Before he can stop himself his feet carry him through the arch of the gates and into the bustling playground full of shouting and intimidation.

* * *

First period come and goes, as does second and third and fourth. Nothing spectacularly bad happens to Sherlock, and John has several acquaintances he can surround himself with, but despite this both boys are miserable and unsure of what to do about it. When the bell for fifth period finally rings, they race for the chemistry lab hoping to get there before Mr. Bruteous, hoping to see each other even for a moment.

The classroom is empty when Sherlock arrives, panting from exertion of running. He turns around to meet the delighted face of John Watson, who stands a couple metres away. With a cry of excitement the smaller boy shoots forward, flinging himself at Sherlock with all his might and wrapping his arms around him as if intending to never let go. The taller boy feels his heart soar, as he reproaches the embrace, smiling down at the smaller boys head as he has buried his face into the material of Sherlock's chest. When he looks back up, the two share a long look, before John opens his mouth to speak.

"Look at those fucking faggots over there!" calls a voice from behind them followed by a chorus of laughter, and their joy quickly turns to horrified realisation, they are in the middle of a crowded corridor. They separate in seconds, faces burning, both refusing to look at the other while in the vicinity. Mr bruteous comes at last to call the class inside, very loudly announcing Sherlock and johns new seating arrangements to the entirety of the science block it would seem. Shamed and severely irritated the pair go to their new seats. John is next to molly, a quiet and mousey girl who very clearly has a crush on Sherlock, and Sherlock sits next to no one, at the moment.

"Now class, I have an announcement to make before we continue!" bellows Mr. bruteous, his moustache bristling as he spoke. "I would like to introduce the newest member of our class, Mr. James Moriarty." He adds, gesturing in a sweeping movement with his hand to the doorway. A relatively short young boy enters the room. He has his tie done up completely and slicked back jet hair. His features are sharp and his eyes are narrow and inquisitive, something about him peaks Sherlock's curiosity.

"Thank you my dear sir" the new boy grins, he has both hands in his pockets and appears to be chewing gum. Suddenly his snake-like eyes are focused on Sherlock, and he shoots him a wink. 'This boy is very odd indeed' Sherlock thinks to himself, not noticing the look of disgust and something like jealousy on John's face from across the room. "You can sit by Master Holmes, James." The teacher says pointing towards were Sherlock is sitting.

"Yes, sir" James says quietly, before slowly making his way down the rows of lab desks to the empty seat he had been designated, hands still in his trouser pockets. The room felt odd with his presence, the whole class seemed kind of mystified by this new boy, but for the life of him Sherlock couldn't figure out why. Mr bruteous began talking, and the class stopped listening. All Sherlock could do was glance every so often at his friend, and occasionally meet his eye.

It seemed like there was something John wanted to tell him, and he was very much correct as a note came to him from the girl on the next desk. "It's from john" she whispered with a kind smile, this girl was one of the nicer people in the class and Sherlock was glad for it. The crumpled piece of torn lined paper must have come from John's book; he opened it gingerly, feeling an odd sense of excitement come over him. It read as follows: 'meet me behind the site managers building after school there's something I have to tell you – JW'

"What's that you've got there?" comes the voice of the new boy, James, which startles him. He hastily folds it back up and with a nod in John's direction he stuffs it into his blazer pocket. Sherlock turns to meet James face to face for the first time, and is straight away taken aback by how intense his eyes are, it feels as though he is closely examining his face. "It's private." Sherlock manages to say flatly, still slightly unnerved. James smiles, and it appears friendly, "oh, that's okay I respect that. It's Sherlock, isn't it?" he adds conversationally. "yes." The taller boy says, preoccupied by what on earth John could _need_ to tell him.

James acknowledges this, and frowns momentarily before renewing his grin, as a new conversation piece comes to him. "Are you the very same Sherlock Holmes that wrote that web blog on 'the science of deduction'?" he inquires looking very much interested. At this Sherlock's starts, and stares at James in moderate disbelief. "You read my blog?" he asks excitedly. That blog is his pride and joy, his crowning achievement, so far. "Oh, I most certainly did, and I must say I really liked the part about tobacco ash and the difference between woman's perfumes." The new boy admitted, twiddling with his pencil.

At this there was no stopping them; the entire hour was spent discussing murder mystery novels and crime scene analysis, questions such as "what is your favourite murder from the past century" and "did you hear about that one serial killer who..." were asked. All the while John could see from afar his friend become more and more engrossed in conversation with this new boy, and it boiled his blood to watch. Not soon enough though it seemed to john the bell for the end of the day rang, and he left for tutor without bothering to look back.

* * *

Sherlock stood waiting behind the site managers building with anticipation, shuffling from foot to foot nervously. What could John possibly have to say that was important? Perhaps the current situation they found themselves in. A part of him hoped it was something else, but he promptly told that part to shut up before it got any ideas.

Before long the sound of running footsteps could be heard getting closer, and then John speeds around the corner of the building to pull the gangly boy into another tight hug. "Sherlock" he sighs, breathing in his familiar scent. Now that he was here, his plan didn't seem like such a great idea, but the feeling of closeness and the way that the taller boy wrapped his arms around him egged him on.

"John..." the dark-haired boy murmurs in response, feeling glad to finally be near him again without being judged. The accusation from earlier stung, but despite this, Sherlock knows what it looked like. What he wishes it was. "What was it you needed to tell me?" Sherlock asks a little shakily, the closeness feeding the part of his imagination he had thought he shut up. "Well..." John begins, his face flushing slightly and his eyes unable to meets Sherlock's.

"What is it John?" the taller boy urges, lifting John's chin to meet his gaze, the improvised action making his own composure waver as he screams at himself internally "what are you doing stop!" John makes a small sound in the back of his throat and gulps. "I care about you, right? And you care about me..." he says in a small voice. Sherlock feels his stomach twist, 'is this really happening' he asks himself panicked.

"Of course..." Sherlock vows, hoping John will just get it over with and spare him. The smaller boy smiles and leans forward slowly, to stop just as their noses touch and Sherlock is absolutely sure his knees are about to give way. With a small movement John brushes the tip off his nose against the taller boys, on tiptoes, and with a knowing smile, Sherlock returns the action. "Sherlock?" John whispers, his breath is warm against the other boys face. "Yes..." he stammers. John leans forward to tantalizingly ghost his lips against the other boys, evoking a small whimper from Sherlock who stares eyes wide in disbelief. "I think... I love you." Without missing a beat Sherlock replies with a soft whisper of "I love you too, John Watson, I think I always have." with a delighted smile, John leans forward and is finally just about to fulfil his fantasies and kiss the lips he had for so long dreamed about.

Just as the new boy, James Moriarty walked around the corner.

He was calling out "oh, Sherlock! I though you said we were meeting at the-"The pair pull apart in an instant, but James has already seen enough to guess what he had interrupted. "Oh" he chuckles, "got yourself a little boyfriend have we? I'm jealous" he smirks, folding his arms across his chest and waiting for any kind of response other than the dumbfounded looks he was receiving.

Sherlock composed himself and begins to try and explain. "Well actually we..." he begins to say "I guess that's what he is, yes." He finishes, punctuated with an awkward smile, reaching out and holding John's hand. The blonde boy nods in confirmation, all jealousy toward this new boy now completely gone. "Yep, we actually just got, urm, together I guess" he chuckles. James quirks and eyebrow at the shorter boy, "congratulations." He says with a slightly forced smile, "Now Sherlock we must be going, the museum closes at seven." He continues looking now at the taller boy, this time the smile is a gentle one, a little too gentle for John's liking.

"Ah yes the science museum!" Sherlock blurted, he had forgotten all about it. "John I must go, Jim and I are going to the museum, can you come with us?" he pleaded squeezing his boyfriends hand fondly. John's smile falls a little, 'so its Jim now is it?' he thinks to himself, feeling of jealousy rearing their ugly head again. "I can't, my bloody mother has made sure of that, after that argument..." He sighs exasperated upon seeing what he thinks is relief in James features. Sherlock frowns, he dislikes Mrs. Watson more and more each day so it seems.

"Sherlock come on..." James coos, butting in. The taller boy nods to him "just a second, I'll be there." He promises, turning back to John, who looks less more than a little left out. Sherlock lifts his chin and leaning forward he plants a tender kiss on the smaller boy's lips, feeling John smile into kiss he pulls away with a smirk, he could get used to this. "I don't care what they say about us. I truly don't. Your mother and all the jerks in the school can't stop me from being with you John Watson, I love you. Now I really must go."

With a final chaste kiss and the brushing together of their noses, Sherlock left with moriarty, who linked his arm playfully with Sherlock's. But John wasn't worried, nothing could bother him that day, he felt as though he was walking on air.

* * *

_next time we will be following what happened at the museum with the mysterious James Moriarty. Mystrade to come at some point later, and most probably non con/ dub con sheriarty/jimlock. Im considering gore later on perhaps. But next chapter is going involve swearing and things that will make you shout NO at the screen, I think._

_thankyou for reading guys, please review! I'd love to hear what you think of the road so far! (I may have just quoted supernatural shhhhh)_

_**please review!**_


End file.
